Scraps: The Musketeers
by ficklescribbler
Summary: Various scraps of writings that are struggling to turn into Snacks or meals. - [On hiatus as of Jan. 2019]
1. Chapter 1

_Scraps, like Snacks, is what it says it is. I originally intended to share the content I'll be putting here in Snacks, but since that one has turned into an unexpectedly compact collection of one-shots, I decided to keep it that way._

 _Here I will post (much) shorter passages, most of which dangle in the air. In fair warning, they might be frustrating to read. But I have a huge folder filled with such scraps of writing and it'll make me feel better to post them - it's a way of getting things out of the way. So allow me my rambling, pointless, sentimental nonsense, and feel free to guess at the larger context; share your thoughts/ideas as to what precedes or follows, or even, if you feel inclined, take them and run away with them. That would be exciting. :) Fanfiction is fast becoming a practice ground for being less apologetic in life._

 _Here is number one._

* * *

"d'Artagnan?"

"Porthos – don't touch him!"

"What?"

"Don't touch him - d'Artagnan - wait."

"Easy... easy, _mon frére,_ you're safe. It's only us. Do you know me?"

 _Of course – of course –_

"It is all well."

 _Is it?_

"Look at me."

 _Aramis-_

"Athos. All is well. Just breathe slowly."

 _I can't –_

"Here. Follow this – can you follow this?"

 _What? What—_

 _A beat. Slow. Strong. Steady._

"Steady now. Good. Breathe with me. That's it."

The world slowly emerged back from the fog and started to take shape.

"...Aramis-"

"You're good." For the warm hand that snuck to the back of his neck, the other one that held his freezing one over that dependable breast, the brow that rested itself against his and the friend that held his trembling body to himself, Athos stilled, and sunk into that embrace as his heart gradually slowed to a lower, acceptable beat. If he felt himself growing heavy, slumping towards a direction he was unable to discern, it was from a far point of mild curiosity; all he knew was the hand on his neck and the closeness of his friends, his skin that was ice cold but the warmth of a different kind that was steadily seeping into his core. He was sinking, sinking into a cocoon being woven by the meaningless, indecipherable, constant mutterings of assurance and comfort by the three voices he trusted the most in this world - _safe_ ; he was safe, finally safe.

He didn't notice when he was gently held and carried to the cot, but he did feel the thick blankets beings tucked around him and the stones that quickly found their way by his feet. He felt the weight of the mattress shift by the foot of the bed and smiled, unaware if his lips reflected the sentiment. There was a low, rumbling buzz around him that was pulling him in; he flinched slightly when he felt a cold hand on his forehead, but it didn't disrupt the pleasurable decent into the darkness. It wasn't the darkness of before, but something that shone softly with a golden glow; it grew like the opening of a blossom and kindly invaded his whole subconscious. His smile following its growth, Athos willingly let himself be absorbed, and descended into nothingness.


	2. Chapter 2

_Firstly, thank you to the Guest reviewer whom I can't reply in person - I'm very pleased to hear you enjoyed the first one, and hope the rest meets the expectation. :)_

 _This is several scraps left over from another story of mine, Thirty Minutes Out, stitched together like a patchwork. If you've read it, some passages here will be familiar. Do not expect much coherence. This, too, is very much Athos, and quite heavily angsty, but the others will be making an appearance soon - specifically, d'Artagnan. Thanks for reading._

* * *

 **I.**

It's not been a good day.

It's not been a good day and it's not over yet. Athos ignores the woman who walks in unceremoniously to shut the window close, prattling on about the storm that's coming, and raises the cup to his mouth, frowning at how badly his hand seems to be shaking. Tries not to glance at how much of the drink spills on the desk, which is a useless attempt at best, and ends up staring as the red blotches grow before his eyes and his mind goes blank. It's too familiar a view - _what is happening?_

His frown deepens. It's not been a good day.

After a week of fighting, the city's been breached soon after sunrise. Now, by nightfall, the situation's mostly under control. He's commandeered a room in a wealthy merchant's house as a temporary command centre, and has done the man a favour by doing so because the Musketeers' presence is keeping the looters at bay. The merchant's wife is infinitely grateful. Athos orders a lad to stand by the door and not let the woman come anywhere near him again. He can't – doesn't want any women near him tonight. _Any_ woman, womenfolk – not now – not after what he's seen (what he's remembered). There's still too much going on – Porthos has been gone for hours; D'Artagnan, since _yesterday_.Does he live? _-_ his heart palpitates and he grunts – _what is happening?_

Has he forgotten to eat? (Has he remembered to eat?)

He puts the cup down, makes his hand unclench from it and raises it to press still trembling fingers on his eyes, hard until the dark turns to red. Where there's usually ordered silence in his mind, he feels the distinctly growing sounds of an approaching crowd; he casts about for calm like an unsettled parent calling his child home, because whatever this is, it feels ominous, even dangerous. This feeling of - unravelling – this silent flying apart - it has to stop. There's too much he needs to—but his heart thuds and _he_ stops.

He will not do this. He will _not_ \- he won't _dwell_.

He will weather it instead.

He shuts the door and sits.

 **II.**

Solitude, these days, is at the top of things that Athos seeks. It's become the rarest of luxuries, up there with a bathtub and clean water, along with white bread and common sense. Now that he has it, in a room between ceaseless footfalls outside the door and the mayhem of a town under invasion outside the window, his gratitude knows no bounds. He needs no witness. He's never needed them.

He knows what's coming.

It was bound to happen.

In retrospect, when he emerges from the other side of it, he might even be thankful for the timing.

 **III.**

The wind howls through a crack in the window frame.

Athos's head snaps towards the voice. He's almost expecting to see a woman - _that_ woman, the one he saw today – slumped down there, unable to rise, unable to _die_ , crying out through her unending pain. But there is, of course, no one before the window, inside or out, and the wind doesn't howl again, as if that one single wail was a precisely thrown dagger, aimed to pierce and penetrate through time, cutting through memories still too fresh, and too tender to touch.

Athos glares at the window. If he could fight the wind, he would strangle it with bare hands.

Once, years ago, he'd been returning to the garrison in Paris after a rare night of unmoderated indulgence when he'd heard a scream that had nailed his feet to the ground. A single, sharp scream of torment; a woman's voice, without a doubt, and his body had suddenly stopped responding to his commands. Next thing he knew, he was not where he had just been, and his sword was in his hand. He'd blinked, looking around to get his bearings, but recognized nothing. Another scream had followed, turning into a babbling cry before getting dragged into the silence, swallowed by the night.

He had woken up in the street, unable to recall anything, with the bitterest of aftertastes in his mouth.

He'd resolved never to let himself sink to that level again. Never whilst he wore the uniform.

But from there on, it had been a landslide.

 **IV.**

It _is_ most likely because he's not even blinked in the last three days. Ate; he knows only because he wouldn't still be on his feet if he hadn't, and the weight of three years of fighting that has been accumulating insidiously would have come crashing down on his head at the first sign of weakness anyhow; Athos might not have noticed it but his defences have been steadily worn down.

So lost he is now, so adrift that he doesn't hear the voices outside the door before it's flung open without a knock, and Porthos barges in with his no-nonsense "Athos, we need to—", stops short and changes track to "What the..." before hurrying inside and crouching in front of him. Confusion creases his face; he barks to the lad at the door without turning from Athos, to go find a physician. The urgency in the request takes its own time reaching through the heavy fog smothering Athos's senses; Porthos reaches unsurely to rest a hand on Athos's neck, and Athos can finally react, reach up a hand to clutch at his friend's wrist, trying to tell him not to worry, that it's nothing; but all he can do is to gasp and it's _ridiculous_ and only serves to make Porthos's frown deepen.

Athos needs no physician. He needs _news_ – he needs _good_ news of d'Artagnan. He needs news of Aramis, too- isn't it ridiculous how even his wants and needs have shrunk to accommodate to the limits of possibility, because he needs, needs, needs Aramis but _news_ of him Athos can have; Aramis himself, he can't. The friend who left is never too far from his thoughts – and it's another something he deals with by ignoring it. Athos needs peace, a moment of peace, a moment of silence within this unending chaos that has become his life; just a bit of solitude to gather himself, to put back his walls and feel sure-footed again-

Somewhere along the line, without his noticing, everything melts into a pot, and he falls into it and silence engulfs the world.

 **V.**

When he comes to his senses, after who knows how much time -for all he can tell is that the night has deepened-, Porthos is with him. He watches Athos carefully for long moments, and when he finally speaks, it is to report that he's found d'Artagnan, safe, but wounded ( _wounded, but safe_ ). He's in a brickmaker's house across the other side of the town and Vidal is with him.

Athos sits up, grabs the cup he'd left on the desk, empties it, and goes back to work.


	3. Chapter 3

_This is a very old one. (I'm sorry these are so morose lately. I've no explanation.)_

 _Imagine Athos – Le Comte de la Fére – coming home to Catherine's screams and finding his brother dead. Imagine the people at the house gathering quickly and crowding the room, a sense of shock pervading the atmosphere. Catherine as white as a sheet, frozen at the door after identifying Milady as the murderer, and Anne is dragged out of the room. Athos takes two steps in and falters before a window, several steps away from Thomas's body, staring._

* * *

He stood there, then, for the longest time, staring at his brother's face, unseeing, uncomprehending, and utterly immobile. Unable to move, unable to reach out and touch him, unaware of the constant shuffling of feet in the room. Servants and townsfolk whispering, constantly whispering, none daring to come close, yet none making to leave, either. Athos knew two things, and two things only: Thomas's grey face before his eyes, and Anne's declaration of love in his ears.

Thomas was dead.

And _I love you!_ she kept shouting.

In the end, it was for Catherine that he looked away from Thomas. His eyes trailed her as she moved around, walking as if in a dream, and sunk to her knees beside Thomas, hands fisting slowly on the voluminous fabric of her skirts. Her body bowed, silent and rigid, until her forehead almost touched Thomas's (still) chest. A copper curl bounced like a coil when her shoulders shook with a sob, still completely mute, but Athos saw the silvery glint of tears dripping from her chin, and how tightly her fingers were clenched.

She, too, seemed to have stopped breathing.

Athos went to her, leaned over and wrapped one arm around her shoulders, then pulled her to her feet and steered her out of the room.

She clung to his arms as they stood in the hallway, trembling violently in his grip until she finally took in a big, heaving breath, and let out a piercing keen, and broke down into tears in his arms.

Cold and stiff, Athos extracted himself from her clutch, and did not excuse himself as he walked away.

/

The document was still in his hand.

The list of crimes committed by Anne de Bruil. His Anne.

A thief, and now, a murderess. His _wife._

 _His_ wife.

Comprehension was eluding him.

He stared at the door of Anne's guarded room, Athos's young footman staring in respect and in embarrassment down at the lacquered floor. Athos studied him. Did the man dare feel sorry for him? Was he embarrassed to have been in his employment? Athos stood and watched as other servants passed him by, a couple of young maids courtesying him and scurrying down the stairs, and wondered, were they fleeing the house? His old valet standing at the landing, scolding the maids, then rushing back into the drawing room to usher the crowd out; Athos watched and heard the noises of feet and the fleeting, curious glances cast about his way by these people, all of whom seemed to be strangers to him – what were they thinking? What had he – not Olivier, but the Comte de la Fére - suddenly become?

Athos wondered, but did not care.

His eyes steered towards the open door of Thomas's room across the other side of the hall, and a freezing cold claimed him with the speed of a cannon ball – his heart thundering against his ribs, Athos turned and fled.

/

He shut the double doors of the study and slid down, trembling from head to toe, and rested his head back against the wall.

 _Thomas_.

He swallowed convulsively.

 _My God, Thomas.._

His brother was gone.

He lurched violently to one side, crawled on all on fours to snatch the flower vase in the corner and threw up.

 _Thomas._

Athos was cold.

 _Thomas._

He was shivering.

 _Thomas._

His vision blurred. There was an acrid smell in the air and the room was large and he was utterly alone.

He dragged himself to the settee like a frail old man, pulled himself up, and slept.


	4. Chapter 4

_Hi all,_

 _I have a single scene from -you guessed it- an unfinished story to share with you, and on account of it, announce that I'm taking a hiatus from the fandom. Can't bring myself to say goodbye as I hope to work slowly on my stories in my own time, but I'm at a point where I must focus fully on my work and career, and frankly, can do with a bit of a distance from everything. This isn't goodbye! I only hope that the fandom will still be alive when I choose to return._

 _I leave you with our dear Athos, Captain Tréville, and Porthos. All my best to all, and my heartfelt thanks for making it so difficult to leave this fandom definitely. It has been a very fun two years._

 _(If you'd like to keep in touch, I'm on Twitter, and Tumblr with the same username._ _It's more research/academia/personal stuff, but a certain actor and other random things put in an occasional appearance as well, and I might post scraps of writings over there.)_

* * *

He awoke with a start.

"Calm. You're alright, calm."

"Where am I?" he whispered, head buried into the pillow as his breath settled.

"The garrison infirmary. You've been here for nearly a week."

"No… no." _He was not. He hadn't been._

"Athos." There was concern in the way his name was called, and the weight that settled on his arm. Athos tried to pull away.

"You're safe," insisted that same voice, "the others found you six days ago. You've been very ill, Athos, but we would have you return to us, if you can."

 _If he can – return – from where?_ He opened his eyes, a struggle against his eyelids, and in the dim light he could make out the outline of someone seated by his side.

"Tréville…"

"The one and only," Tréville smiled. "How do you feel?"

He felt wretched. He felt heavy and sore and weak - weaker than he had ever felt in his entire life. He tried to see around Tréville, noting the absences.

"I've ordered Aramis and d'Artagnan to rest. Porthos has just stepped out – he'll be furious if you fall asleep before he returns."

"How did –" He winced, throat protesting rigorously.

"It is a long tale, Athos. Short answer? Determination. They left no stone unturned. They wouldn't stop until you were found."

He wished they were here. _He wanted to see them._ Exhausted, he didn't notice that his eyes had slipped close.

"Athos."

The soft hand on his arm, a gentleness to Tréville's tone that no one was much accustomed to. "You must try and eat a bit. Stay awake for a few moments."

Yet sleep was insistent, pressing down on his limbs as though Porthos was pinning him down, impossible to throw off –

"'e awake? Athos?"

"Come, Athos; don't disappoint Porthos –"

Athos would have smiled if he could as he gathered all of his strength just to open his eyes.

A blurred, gigantic shape filled his sight – _Porthos!_ – right before his friend swooped down and Athos felt himself being lifted, just slightly, and Porthos pressed a firm kiss and a shuddering breath upon his brow.

He couldn't see, but he felt the tears in Porthos's eyes. His own throat closed. He lacked the strength to even pat his friend's arm, respond in some way to his greeting; it was all he could do to remain awake for a little while longer. He watched as Porthos carefully took over a warm pot from Tréville and settled himself by his hip.

"You gotta eat. You need your strength back. Been keepin' this warm for you. Try a spoon?" He looked as anxious as Athos suddenly felt himself growing at the prospect.

He steeled himself and signalled his consent, and did his best to swallow quickly when the warm mouthful slipped past his lips. It was nothing short of an explosion of flavour – _too much_ , _too much_! – but his stomach, at least, remained calm.

"'ow is it? You think you can try a second?"

For Porthos, Athos did.

But the taste was _disgusting_ , the taste was too much – "Water…"

"'ere."

A few quick dribbles – to _that_ his stomach did protest, an immediate twinge that made him gasp and try to breathe through it, but it washed away the taste and Athos was content. So were, thankfully, Porthos and Tréville with this attempt, as they did not try to force him for more. He vaguely felt his limp hand being picked up and tucked under the blanket. He barely registered the cloth ghosting over his brow. Before he knew it, he had fallen back to sleep.


End file.
